The Arkansaw traveler., 1887-12-17
BY HAL BERTE.

hasten to take back statement in my last as to the whereabouts of Mark Twain. It seems he is not in England after all. Anyhow, MT. s. l.. Clem- ems is in Hartford, and where MT. Clemens is, there, of course, is Mark Twain also. My excuse must be that the source whence derived my infor- nation was one in the reliability of which had every confidence, but the most reliable sources, it seems, are not always infallible. Next time I will make it my business to gaze on Mark in the flesh before committing myself to statements as to his whereabouts. Luke Sharp, of the Detroit Free Press, goes for me, observe, on this matter, but I hope, now that I have mailed Mark Twain back again to Mr. Clemens, Luke will be satisfied. am rather sorry, though, that the twain are not in England. A real humorist in this country would be a treat, and the presence of Mark would at least have afforded us some consolation for the absence of Luke. Thanks for your compliment, Luke, about "one of the best London letters now going" When we next meet at the "Gaiety" bar or go Dark street, Hastings, it will be my turn to stand treat, and don't you forget it..
 Following in the immortal footsteps of poor Artemus Wards snowman double, the London sporting frater- nifty have recently been hard at work cheering the man who eft" The hero of the hour has been J. l.. Sullivan. It is no exaggeration to say that Sul- livan's debut on British soil has been veritable triumphal procession. No statesman or monarch could have wished for heartier reception. AL though Sullivan in his way may not be amiss, it is very doubtful whether this lavish adulation of an expositor of the brute side of human nature is a healthy sign. Still there are undoubt- edly men-I hardly think, women who from the bottom of their hearts believe that prize fighting exalteth a nation-men who look upon Sulli- van as a greater hero even than Liv- ingstone or Gordon. Some thought of this kind would have entered your mind had you been in Fleet street on the day J. l.. Sullivan went to report himself to the Sportsman. In front of the Sp0rtSmdn office surging mass of humanity had gathered, completely impeding vehicular and foot traffic. When the famous pugilist put in an oh men fought and struggled like mad men to catch glimpse of him. You did not want to look twice, however, to see what manner of men they were. If the face is any index to character, should be sorry to pass through such a crowd with my coat unbuttoned and my watch chain exposed to view. Even the more espectable-clad in broadcloth-bore that unmistakable sensual appearance which is insepara- ble from the genteel sporting crank all the world over. Jay Gould arrived in this country about the same time as Sullivan, but we have heard little or nothing of him. Then, you see, Jay Gould is not pugilist. He can't mash a mans face up so that his mother wouldn't know him. He can't even throw lasso or ride mustang, or break six glass balls in six shots, like Buffalo Bill. How, then, can you expect "soclety" to make pet of Jay Gould. Heard in the crowd: Old Lady-"Who's this crowd waiting for?" Bystander-"To see Sullivan" Old Lady-"What, the 'Ruddy gore chap2" Bystander-"Yes, I guess so he's split good deal of ruddy gore in his time." Old lady moves on per- fectly satisfied.
 It will doubtless amuse and edify the authoress of "Curfew Must Not Ring To- -Night,n if she eyer sees this, to learn that there is an intelligent person in this country who has re- gently confessed in prominent lit- erary journal that he has read that immortal poem ssto-day for the first time." He has read it, but he is not satisfied. He is not satisfied because he has discovered that the incident chronicled in the poem seems famil- lar to him, and he has further dis